


Safe

by Klitch



Category: K (Anime)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-09
Updated: 2015-07-09
Packaged: 2018-04-08 10:03:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4300569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Klitch/pseuds/Klitch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fushimi knew he could take off the knives if he wanted. It should be easy. He should be able to take them off. It was just that he didn't feel safe, without them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Safe

**Author's Note:**

> Fic for Sarumi Fest~ Just been wanting to write something around the idea of Fushimi wearing his knives all the time as a kind of defense mechanism, and taking them off being a sign of trust. This was originally intended to be more porny than it ended up but I think this way flowed better with the story.

They were lying on the couch together, and Fushimi had just managed to get Yata's shirt off. 

Neither one of them was quite used to this yet, the whole physical aspect of things, but it was getting easier. Fushimi pressed his mouth up against Yata's as his hands ran along Yata's bare skin, enjoying the way Yata whimpered into his mouth and how his face went red with every light touch of Fushimi's fingers. It was nice, being the one to drag those reactions out of Yata, knowing that it was his hands making Misaki blush and squirm. 

Fushimi's own clothes were rumpled but still intact and Yata pressed up against him, hands nervously but surely slipping under Fushimi's shirt. Fushimi's breath quickened slightly and his tongue slid into Yata's mouth, egging him on. Yata seemed all too willing to comply, fingers ghosting just above Fushimi's skin, almost touching... 

“Not again!” Yata swore and pulled his hand back with a hiss of pain. There was a long cut running down his palm, already dripping blood. 

“I told you to be careful.” Fushimi shrugged, unconcerned. He really didn't know why Yata made such a big deal about a little accidental cut. It wasn't as though he didn't know Fushimi was always armed. 

Always, even when they were lying on top of each other half naked on the couch in their shared apartment. 

“Don't give me that crap.” Yata climbed off Fushimi, holding his hand to his mouth to stem the bleeding. Fushimi sat up with a quiet huff, irritated at the loss of contact, his eyes following Yata as the other boy hurried towards the bathroom to tend to the injury. 

They had been living together for about two weeks now and things were still more or less a work in progress. Yata's apartment wasn't quite made for two but he'd been reluctant to go searching for a new one. Fushimi had personally been all for getting their old place back (that it was currently being rented out was no matter to him. He was, after all, a government official and Fushimi was reasonably confident that if necessary he could find enough health code violations to get the current tenants tossed out) but Yata had been strangely resistant to the idea. 

The apartment was slowly becoming a place for two, even so. Figuring out the sleeping situation had been the most challenging. They did intend to buy a new bed at some point but for the moment they still had only Yata's single one. When Fushimi had first moved in Yata had allowed him to have the bed, knowing full well that to do otherwise would likely lead to a lot of grumbling, and Yata had simply slept on the couch. It had seemed like a decent enough compromise but Fushimi had increasingly found it difficult to get to sleep even though Yata's bed was perfectly comfortable and had instead found himself standing in the doorway at all hours staring at Yata's sleeping figure in the other room. Fushimi hadn't said anything about it and Yata never seemed to wake up, but even so after a few days Yata had come home dragging a futon that he laid down next to the bed. There was barely enough room for it and Fushimi had already tripped over Yata twice in the middle of the night, wandering in late and half-asleep after a long shift, but Yata had insisted on continuing to sleep in the room. 

_“Because if I don't you'll never get any sleep, stupid monkey,”_ had been Yata's explanation when Fushimi had asked about it, lying in a tangle of bruised limbs and sheets after the second time Fushimi had tripped over him. If he hadn't been so tired Fushimi would have argued with him about it – he'd gotten _plenty_ of sleep without Misaki in the room, for years running now and it wasn't like they were in middle school anymore, he didn't need Yata to sleep next to him like some kind of security blanket. 

It was just that Fushimi woke up in the middle of the night all the time, that was all, and sometimes lying in there in the bed with the half-remembered bits of dreams still floating in his head he'd felt like he couldn't breathe and he just needed to confirm it, that Yata was still there. That was all. 

“Geez, this one's really deep too,” Yata muttered from the bathroom, bloody tissues pressed against the wound. 

“Should I kiss it and make it better?” Fushimi asked mildly, coming up behind Yata and resting his chin on Yata's shoulder. Yata shrugged him off with slightly more force than usual and Fushimi blinked widely at him in confusion. 

“This is like the third time I've had to come into the bar with bandages on,” Yata grumbled, digging beneath the sink for something to bind the wound. “I think Kusanagi-san and everyone are starting to think you're trying to kill me, you know.” 

“Who cares what those idiots think?” Fushimi said coldly, crossing his arms. Yata sighed and rolled his eyes, the unspoken _we've been through this before_ very clear, and Fushimi pretended he hadn't seen anything. 

It wasn't like he was _forbidding_ Yata from spending time with the rest of Homra. He was well aware of the futility of that, and besides Fushimi spent most of his waking hours working with his own clan anyway. But it didn't mean that Fushimi had to _like_ Homra or all the morons who were part of it. 

“Misaki...” Fushimi reached for Yata's injured hand, bringing the wound close to his lips and savoring the way Yata's eyes went wide and his cheeks turned red. “Hey, let's go back to the couch.” 

“Not now.” Yata pulled his hand away with a surprising amount of force and Fushimi fell back against the door, off balance. He knew that sometimes Yata tried to be affectionate when Fushimi wasn't in the mood for it and Fushimi had never had any trouble waving him off in those cases, but _Yata_ had never refused any affection from him. The reversal made him feel oddly tense and he backed out of the bathroom, trying to act as though nothing important had happened. 

Yata seemed to sense the sudden changing in Fushimi's mood, as he quickly finished wrapping his hand and followed Fushimi out. Fushimi had settled himself on the couch in a lump, shoulders pulled in close, fiddling with his PDA. Yata sighed and sat down next to him. 

“The mood's ruined now, right?” Yata tried, an obvious peace offering, and Fushimi clicked his tongue. 

“Suit yourself.” Fushimi continued to stare at his PDA and Yata glared. 

“Come _on,_ monkey, stop pouting,” Yata said darkly. “This wasn't my fault, you know.” He waved his injured hand in the air. Fushimi briefly stopped playing with PDA to give Yata a flat look over his glasses. 

_“I'm_ not the idiot who got himself stabbed,” Fushimi stated. 

“The hell does that mean?” Yata jumped to his feet. He was clearly irritated about something and Fushimi wasn't really certain what, and that was putting _Fushimi_ on edge. 

“It means you should be more careful where you put your hands,” Fushimi said and Yata stared at him as if he'd just said something outrageous. 

_“I_ should...I was trying to—I was---I mean, I was going to--” Yata coughed and Fushimi snickered. 

“If you were trying to take my clothes off you should have just said so, _Misaki.”_ He couldn't help the mockery in his tone but it seemed to just make Yata more annoyed. 

“W-well, _anyway,”_ Yata continued, his ears still bright red, “how the hell am I supposed to...to touch you or whatever if you have all those fucking _knives_ on you?” 

“They're not hard to avoid once you know where they are.” Fushimi shrugged. He didn't really see why Yata was making a big deal of this. It had just been a small cut, after all. Fushimi had done that to himself plenty of times before he'd gotten used to having hidden weapons on him. 

“I shouldn't _have to,_ ” Yata argued. “We're in our own place, Saru. Why do you even need to have those _on?”_

“Just in case.” Fushimi replied, as if it should be obvious even to a moron. 

“Just in case _what?_ ” Yata said, exasperated. “Even if we got attacked here I'm pretty sure we could take them even without eighty knives or however many you've got hiding in there.” 

“Twenty-two,” Fushimi corrected automatically and Yata shook his head. 

“That's not what I'm talking about, Saru!” Yata leaned forward so that he was staring Fushimi right in the face. “You don't have to wear those when it's just you and me. So why do you have them on?” 

“Because this way is safer,” Fushimi said with a shrug. Yata cocked his head, looking confused. 

“But you're with me,” Yata said. “So it's plenty safe already, right?” 

“No,” Fushimi said without even thinking. 

There was a sudden silence and Fushimi looked up. Yata had taken a step back and he was staring at Fushimi as if Fushimi had just said something terrible to him. 

“You...you don't feel safe with me here?” Yata's fists clenched as he spoke. 

“Tch. Don't be a moron.” Fushimi rolled his eyes. “I'm just not stupid enough to leave myself unguarded, that's all.” 

“Yeah, but you don't need to be on guard around me.” Yata seemed to be actively trying to keep his temper in check and Fushimi clicked his tongue again, eyes going back to his PDA. 

“Of course I do.” It was an automatic reaction, an immediate shield raised without his even needing to be aware of it. Fushimi heard Yata suck in a sharp breath. 

“Wait, you really think – you think I would – ” Yata stumbled over his words and his tone was tense and angry. 

“You asked,” Fushimi said dismissively, not looking up. 

“Yeah, and I guess I should've known better than to do that, huh?” Yata muttered. “Seriously, Saruhiko, sometimes you piss me off, you know.” 

_“Me?”_ Fushimi scoffed. “I'm not the idiot getting fired up over a tiny stab wound.” 

“That's not the point!” Yata pressed a palm against his forehead for a moment, exasperated. “Do you seriously not get why I'm annoyed, you asshole?” 

“No,” Fushimi said bluntly. “I don't spend my time trying to get into the heads of idiots.” 

“Don't call me an idiot, stupid monkey!” Yata snapped. His fists were clenched and he looked angrier than Fushimi could remember seeing him in a long time. “Agh, just forget it! I'm going to bed.” 

“It's barely eight o'clock,” Fushimi said mildly but Yata was already turning away from him. 

“Just...just leave me alone right now,” Yata said quietly, turning on his heel. 

“Suit yourself.” Fushimi shrugged. Yata paused, back stiffening slightly as he glanced briefly back at Fushimi before shaking his head and stalking into the bedroom, pointedly slamming the door. 

Fushimi jumped slightly as the door closed. He hadn't actually expected Yata to walk away from him and felt somewhat at a loss. 

“Stupid Misaki.” Fushimi crossed his arms and curled up slightly on the couch, lowering his head. “That's my room too, you idiot.” 

He knew they'd just had a fight – technically their first fight since they'd started living together but since it was probably somewhere in hundreds out of overall fights he didn't think it should bother him much. But there was a wavering feeling on the edges of his mind, a kind of uneasy nervousness that he couldn't seem to shut off, and Fushimi wrapped his arms tighter around himself. 

Why _shouldn't_ he carry knives still? Stupid Misaki just didn't understand anything at all, like usual. It wasn't like he'd said he was using them to protect himself against _Yata_. It was just that...he didn't feel safe without them. It was like opening up a door he'd intended to stay locked, if he took them off. 

But Yata had looked strangely hurt, when Fushimi had told him that. Fushimi chewed on his bottom lip. It didn't make any sense at all. Misaki was probably just being an oversensitive moron, like always. 

Even so Fushimi couldn't help but feel restless and he curled in closer around himself as he stared over the edge of the couch at the closed bedroom door. 

– 

They somehow managed to miss each other for the rest of that night and the next morning. If Fushimi was being totally honest he might, under duress, admit that more than a little of that was his own fault – that he'd maybe pretended to still be asleep in the middle of the night after hours of tossing and turning and acted as though he didn't hear the door creak open like someone was looking out, pretended to sleep even as he felt the familiar presence standing near him, waiting to see if there would be a light touch against his hand or hair brushed away from his forehead, and when nothing happened he'd only rolled over and pretended he hadn't heard a thing anyway. That he'd maybe laid there on the couch wide awake but with his eyes closed for a little too long until he heard Yata leave the apartment and only then had he sat up, stiff and sore and miserable as he looked around cautiously to be sure Yata was gone. 

It wasn't like he was afraid of Misaki, of course. That would be ridiculous. There was no way he was worried about facing Misaki and having to talk about their fight, or even worse sit there awkwardly on the opposite side of the table as they ate breakfast, squirming in the poisonous silence. 

Yata had taken his skateboard, which meant he was probably headed to Homra and who knew when he would be back but he hadn't bothered to send a message or anything on his PDA. He had left Fushimi both lunch and breakfast, though, sitting on the counter wrapped in plastic. Fushimi's stomach twisted a little as he stared at it and in the end he decided to leave it there and left for work without any food at all. 

Work turned out to be more irritating than usual, or at least that was how it felt. The entire morning was filled with nothing but one idiot after another requiring his help with all manner of pointless busywork, fixing a computer some moron broke and rewriting half the reports from the night before only to leave his desk for a moment and find the papers he had just written had accidentally gotten mixed in with some older files and been thrown away. It was enough to put him in an even fouler mood than usual, but at least it made it easier for Fushimi to pretend that absolutely none of that had anything to do with Misaki or their fight. 

By the time the afternoon came his stomach felt hollow and a little sick, and Fushimi found himself thinking about covered plates wrapped in plastic. His face twisted in a scowl and he pushed the paperwork away. It was getting later in the day and he knew most of the forces tended to eat earlier, which meant there was at least a decent chance that the dining hall would be fairly empty and maybe he could find something to eat without having to be bothered by any more distractions. 

There were still a few stragglers eating when Fushimi walked in but there were plenty of empty spots and Fushimi all but threw himself down at a table. The smell of the food was suddenly making him feel ill and he wondered if maybe he shouldn't just go run out to the nearest convenience store and buy some CalorieMate and then come back. It would be easier than trying to force actual food down when he didn't feel the need to eat. 

_“You have to eat or you're going to get sick, Saruhiko, how many times do I have to tell you?”_ Fushimi could hear Yata's scolding tone in his mind and his skin felt cold, knives and steel pressed against him, and Fushimi clicked his tongue in annoyance. 

“Fushimi-san?” The sound of a voice made Fushimi look up. Akiyama and Benzai had come up behind him, food in hand. Akiyama was looking at him with concern. “Are you all right? You haven't eaten anything.” 

“Not hungry,” Fushimi mumbled into his sleeves, resting his head on his arms. 

“Ah, right, Yata-san usually makes your meals doesn't...” Akiyama trailed off and he and Benzai exchanged glances. 

“I see. A fight,” Benzai said, nodding thoughtfully. Fushimi stiffened. 

“B-Benzai!” Akiyama looked nervously between his partner and Fushimi still hunched and obviously irritated, which was really an answer in itself. 

“A fight bad enough that he didn't make you lunch, huh,” Benzai said as he laid his tray down on the opposite side of the table. Akiyama shot him a quick glance and then settled himself next to Fushimi. 

“It couldn't be anything that bad, could it?” Akiyama said encouragingly. “You shouldn't be so worried, Fushimi-san.” 

“It wasn't a fight,” Fushimi said sharply. “That idiot was just getting worked up over little things, that's all. I don't know why that's supposed to be my fault.” 

“Definitely a fight, then,” Benzai said and Fushimi buried his head into his arms a little further with another irritated tongue click. 

“Eh? Fushimi-san had a fight with Yata-san?” Fushimi raised his head as Hidaka slid into an open seat on Fushimi's other side. 

“A fight, that's too bad,” Gotou said as he set his own food down next to Hidaka. The rest of the Special Forces members followed suit and Fushimi wondered darkly if he should be charging admission for this. 

“We didn't have a fight,” he said coldly. “Misaki was being a moron last night and I didn't feel like talking to him this morning, that's all.” 

“So you gave him the silent treatment?” Doumyoji asked blithely, taking a bite of his food. 

“Ignoring an issue rarely makes it go away,” Kamo added in a tone that suggested he was all too familiar with this sort of situation. “It often can only make things worse.” 

“I'm not ignoring anything, because we _didn't have a fight,”_ Fushimi grit out through clenched teeth. 

“Well, just talk to him and I'm sure you'll work it out somehow!” Hidaka said encouragingly. “You can't fix things if you don't talk, right?” 

“It's always important to get to the heart of an issue,” Gotou added. 

“I don't even know what the problem is anyway,” Fushimi grumbled. “That idiot was just getting upset all on his own.” 

“You could ask him?” Enomoto suggested. “If you don't know what's wrong you can't fix things, right?” 

“Why should I have to fix anything?” Fushimi said, ignoring the prickling feeling in the back of his mind trying to remind him that maybe he'd had something to do with Yata's mood and all right, maybe he _could_ have woken up and they could have talked about it this morning, and Fushimi quickly shoved the feeling aside. 

“Sometimes even if you haven't caused the problem you may still be the only one who can fix it,” Kamo said. “Letting an issue lie for too long will only make it fester.” 

“Or you could just say you're sorry for whatever it is and move on!” Doumyoji put in. 

“Sometimes the best way to fix things is just to sincerely apologize,” Enomoto added, nodding. “Even if you aren't sure what choice is correct, apologizing almost always makes the other person feel better.” 

“Where'd you learn that, Eno?” Hidaka looked over at Enomoto with some surprise. “I thought you haven't had a lot of girlfriends?” 

“It was probably from one of his girl games,” Fuse muttered and Enomoto coughed sheepishly. 

“Still, it is sound logic,” Benzai said thoughtfully. “Apologize pre-emptively, diffusing the situation and making the other person feel in your debt for being the one who caused the issue, yet you were the one to apologize. An effective tactic.” 

“Hmm, but that's not really 'sincere' then, is it?” Doumyoji wondered. Fushimi gave a frustrated groan and lowered his head again, as if not being able to see them might make all of them go away. 

There was a light touch on his shoulder and Fushimi looked up into Akiyama's concerned face. 

“Even if you don't understand the problem you still want to fix it, right?” Akiyama smiled. “Try to see things from Yata-san's perspective. Even if it seems like something small to you maybe it was important to him. I think that any problem can be worked out, if you understand each other.” 

“Misaki's perspective is _stupid,_ ” Fushimi said shortly. “He was barely even bleeding and he still kept making a fuss.” 

There was a long pause as the others exchanged glances. 

“B-bleeding...?” Hidaka attempted. Fushimi leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms. 

“If he can't remember where the knives are hidden then he should just ask,” Fushimi continued. “Otherwise it's his own idiot fault if he gets stabbed.” 

“Wait, you wear knives at home too?” Hidaka asked, confusion clear on his face. “Why?” 

“That's what he said too, why is it such a problem?” Fushimi shook his head. The others were looking at him with expressions that somehow made him feel even more on edge and he started to stand. “I'm going back to work.” 

“I see. A defense mechanism.” He stepped back and nearly bumped right into Munakata, who had appeared as if from nowhere. Fushimi grit his teeth and swallowed a groan. Clearly he really should have been charging admission, since then he'd have an excuse to keep people out. 

“Tch. What the hell does that mean?” Fushimi backed up against the table. “Just because I'm not an idiot who leaves himself in a vulnerable position because of some stupid idea of being _safe_ or anything like that.” 

“I do not believe anyone suggested that was so,” Munakata said. He was watching Fushimi with keen eyes that made Fushimi feel suddenly too aware of himself again and of the weaponry pressed up against him. “There is of course nothing wrong with an excess of caution, if you feel you are in danger.” 

“In danger? From Misaki?” Fushimi snorted. “That's not...” He trailed off, unwanted memories replaying in his head. 

_“But you're with me, so it's plenty safe already, right?”_

_“No.”_

He hadn't really meant it that way, Fushimi was certain of that. Exactly what he _had_ meant, though, he couldn't quite find the words to say. It was only that when he'd said that to Yata he knew it had been the absolute truth and somehow that had been the thing that seemed to have hurt Yata the most. 

“Or is it simply being a position you perceive as vulnerable that bothers you?” Munakata wondered. Fushimi clicked his tongue again and Munakata's smile seemed to widen just slightly as if Fushimi's reaction had only confirmed his thoughts. 

“That's just stupid, isn't it,” Fushimi said quietly. “To put yourself in a position that's vulnerable in the first place. Only a moron would open himself up like that.” 

“Is that so?” Munakata's voice was still perfectly calm, as if he was discussing some abstract concept and not inserting himself into Fushimi's love life. “But placing oneself in a vulnerable position can mean more than simply choosing to remain unguarded. That an animal shows you its stomach means it believes that its master will not harm it and that it places all its trust in the hands of the one it cares for. Indeed, I would think such a thing shows bravery, does it not?” 

“Idiocy, more likely,” Fushimi said coldly. “And then when the animal gets its stomach torn open, all that bravery is worse than useless.” 

“Ah, so you believe Yata Misaki would tear you apart, given the chance?” There was a sharpness to Munakata's words that made Fushimi stiffen and pull away, fingers suddenly itching for the familiar grip of a blade. 

“I'm not afraid of Misaki.” The reply came almost automatically, as if on instinct. 

“Indeed.” Munakata accepted the words easily but there was still something secretive in his smile that made Fushimi suddenly desperate to get away. 

“This is pointless. I'm going back to work,” Fushimi declared, turning away. 

“Wait, Fushimi-san--!” He heard Hidaka call after him but Fushimi didn't turn around, striding out of the cafeteria with a sense of almost hurried purpose. 

It was stupid, of course. He wasn't afraid of Misaki. The very idea was completely laughable. 

But he remembered lying there on the couch with his eyes closed as Yata stood over him in the middle of the night and somehow the words he had just spoken to Munakata couldn't help but taste like a lie in his mouth. 

– 

“You're late.” Fushimi looked up wearily at Yata as he stepped into the apartment, tired and sore and slightly damp from the rain that had decided to start falling right when he'd been in the middle of chasing down a Strain in the middle of a city street with no cover. Part of Fushimi had almost been hoping that maybe Yata would have gone to bed already but there was no such luck. Yata was standing near the front door and something about his stance gave Fushimi the impression that he'd been there for some time. 

“I was busy.” Fushimi walked right past him, tossing his coat on the floor and ignoring Yata's sudden disapproving look, all but throwing himself down on the couch. 

“You could have called, you know.” Yata sounded annoyed and Fushimi wondered if he was still mad about whatever he'd been angry over the night before. 

_“Try to see things from Yata-san's perspective.”_ Akiyama's words rang in his head and Fushimi scowled. 

“Saruhiko? Hey, I'm talking to you.” Fushimi looked up sharply at Yata's words. Yata had moved to stand in front of him, looking exasperated. 

“What now? I'm tired.” Fushimi waved him away with a huff. He felt on edge somehow, as though he was waiting for a storm to break. 

“You know, I don't know what your problem is lately, Saruhiko,” Yata said. “I—I mean, I thought we were on the same page now. I thought you were _happy,_ being....being with me, and all. And then you keep doing shit like this, not calling me and avoiding me all morning – don't give me that look monkey, I've been with you long enough to know when you're faking being asleep – _and_ you didn't even take the food I set out for you.” 

“Wasn't hungry,” Fushimi said, not looking at him. 

“Don't lie to me,” Yata shot back. It wasn't a yell, like Fushimi had half-expected. It was more a sigh of disappointment, as if Yata was resigning himself to something. 

_As if he expected better from you._ There was a tiny traitorous part of Fushimi's mind stirring to life, and Fushimi stiffened slightly. _Misaki really is an idiot if he thought that. Isn't this the way you always are? Destroying everything important, because you're too much of a coward to try and work things out._

_“See things from Yata-san's perspective,”_ Akiyama's voice echoed again. _“Sometimes the best way to fix things is to just sincerely apologize.”_ Enomoto and his stupid girl-game logic. Fushimi's fingers dug into the fabric of his pants, and his chest itched. 

“Hey, are you even listening to me, Saru?” Yata's voice broke through the haze in his mind again and Fushimi didn't reply. Yata gave a heavy sigh, turning away. “Whatever. Just—just sit there and pout, then. I'm gonna finish dinner.” 

Fushimi raised his head slightly. He could see Yata's back in front of him, hunched slightly, head held a little lower. 

_You're still hurting him._ The voices in his mind were whispering again. _Doesn't Misaki deserve better than you? You, who can't even apologize properly for things that are your own fault?_

_It's not my fault!_ Fushimi quietly argued with himself. _I'm not...I..._ He was suddenly too aware of every single knife that was hidden on his body, a criss cross of steel blades that felt almost like a cage. 

Of course he could take them off, if he wanted to. He could take them off at any time. It was just that he needed them, that was all. 

“You know...” Yata's voice was quiet and frustrated, and Fushimi almost didn't hear it. “Sometimes I wonder if you even want to be here with me at all, Saruhiko.” 

All of a sudden Fushimi felt as if all the blood had rushed to his head, pounding between his ears, and he grit his teeth against the pain as he forced himself to stand. 

“I'll leave then.” Fushimi's voice was curt and clipped, carefully devoid of emotion. Yata immediately reacted, stopping to stare at him wide-eyed. 

“W-wait, Saruhiko, I didn't mean--” 

“But you said it, didn't you?” Fushimi was smiling widely and even he didn't know why. It hurt, that smile, but he felt as though if he didn't it would hurt more. A cage of knives on either side of his chest, blades between his skin and Misaki's, and the smile that tore its way across his expression and left only the jagged edges of an opened wound in its wake. “Honestly, Misaki, if all you're going to do is cry about this like a girl, why should I stay? You're the one who always says what he means, right?” 

He didn't even give Yata time to reply, couldn't give Yata time to reply. His blood was pounding too loudly in his ears and even then he knew that it wouldn't be loud enough to drown out the words he didn't want to hear, so he couldn't give Yata time to reply. He swept past Yata and out the door without another word, letting the wind slam the door shut behind him as he stepped out into the rain. 

He thought Yata might have shouted his name behind him, but Fushimi kept moving. 

– 

Fushimi rocked slightly back and forth on the empty swing set, shivering a little in the cold and feeling stupid. 

He'd gotten halfway down the street before it occurred to him that he really had nowhere to go. There was Scepter 4, of course – he knew Munakata would let him back into the dorms, and if there wasn't a free room Akiyama would probably lend him a spot on the floor for a few nights – but it was so late that by now almost everyone would be off duty and anyway there was no way to go back there without having to explain why. Most of the stores were closed too, as was the game center. He knew there were probably a couple Internet cafes open but thinking of sitting there in a near-empty cafe in place of a home reminded him too much of memories he'd long tried to forget. 

It had eventually started to rain even harder and he'd been forced to look for shelter. The park had been the nearest spot, and he'd spent ten miserable minutes huddled under something that looked like a giant elephant waiting for the worst of the rain to stop. The benches were all soaked but there was a large tree whose canopy extended over the top of the swing set and had kept it mostly dry so that was where he'd ended up, feeling like an idiot sitting there by himself in the middle of the night, his legs dangling down into the grass. 

“Stupid Misaki.” Fushimi kicked at the dirt, swinging forward just a little (not too much, though – he'd always gotten sick on swing sets as a child). 

It was definitely all Misaki's fault. Fushimi kicked at the dirt again, sending a small patch of mulch flying. _Stupid Misaki._ Kick. _Stupid, stupid Misaki._ Kick. Kick. 

Stupid _Saruhiko_ and he stopped swinging and dangled there miserably, staring down at the gashes in the ground where he'd kicked up mud. His shoes were dirty and he felt a little sick to his stomach. 

He'd had to leave. There was no way around it, right? If he'd stayed, Misaki would have only told him to go in the end. He'd just left before he could be abandoned, that was all. 

And he could almost see Yata's face in his mind, staring at him reproachfully. _We've been through this. We've been through this already._ They'd already argued that one out, argued and fought and cried a little and he'd thought okay, everything's fixed now, we've fixed it. They were together again, like it was supposed to be. The world was a little wider but that maybe wasn't so bad. They were together, that was what mattered. 

And even still, he couldn't quite believe it. Fushimi smiled ruefully. He'd made it exactly one fight before running. _Well done, idiot monkey,_ Yata's voice congratulated him in his mind and Fushimi leaned back to look up at the sky, so choked with clouds he couldn't even see the stars. One fight, and he'd already ruined everything. 

_“Well, just talk to him and I'm sure you'll work it out somehow!”_ Hidaka's cheery voice reminded him and Fushimi bit his lip. He had never been good at talking about things like that and Yata he knew had never been good at reading things that weren't said. They were perfectly mismatched in every way so it was probably just something inevitable, a fact of the universe, that they would split apart every time they came together. 

It hurt, though. Fushimi's hands clenched around the swing so tightly he knew the chain was probably leaving marks in his palm. He hadn't wanted to leave, not really. But when he'd heard Yata's words there had been a deep lingering _fear_ that had triggered every instinct to run, and so he had. 

And Misaki had called his name when he'd gone out the door, as if to stop him. Misaki, who always laid his stupid metal bar and his skateboard just to the left of the door the moment he walked inside because he didn't need them when it was just the two of them alone in their own apartment. 

Fushimi knew he could do the same, lay his own weapons beside Misaki's like some twisted version of a couple's coat rack. It shouldn't be hard. He should be able to take them off. 

Knives around his chest, knives up his sleeves, knives in his boots. All these weapons, and he still he felt vulnerable. Physical attacks he could handle, punches and kicks and colors, but words and emotions and the pounding of his heart, those were a different story. The mind that never stopped thinking and was always balanced on the edge of fight or flight, never quiet, never really safe. 

“Stupid.” He didn't know who he was saying it to anymore and his chest itched so badly he raised a hand to scratch. 

His hand touched where the burn should be and instead felt only a bandage, the one Misaki had made him put on and had dutifully made him change every evening after he bathed. _“It'll get infected if you leave it like that. No wonder you get sick all the time, stupid monkey, you don't take care of yourself. Come on, let me put a bandage on at least. I know it's not gonna fix it, I didn't say it was, but at least you can let it scar over properly, okay?”_

“Misaki.” Fushimi lowered his hands down to his lap and stared down at them, shoulders hunched. He didn't know what he was supposed to do. His heart wanted desperately to go back and find Yata, but every nerve was still on edge, every treacherous thought still hovering on the edges of his mind telling him that there was nothing to go back to. 

“Saruhiko! There you are, you asshole, I've been worried sick!” 

The sudden familiar yell made Fushimi look up sharply as a figure appeared in the middle of the rain, running recklessly through the mud with an umbrella in one hand. 

“...Misaki?” Even as he said it he couldn't quite believe it, couldn't quite believe that it was really Misaki running up to him through the rain. 

“I looked all over the place for you too.” Yata was panting by the time he reached where Fushimi still sat dumbfounded on the swings. “Come on, let's go home already.” 

“What are you doing here?” Fushimi felt like he should have some response, some mocking comeback, but his entire body felt cold and his mind didn't seem to be quite able to keep up. 

“Coming to get the idiot who ran out into the rain.” Yata grabbed his wrist, warm hand on cold skin, and tugged slightly to get Fushimi to climb to his feet. He gave Fushimi a shaky smile. “You're not an easy guy to find, you know.” 

Fushimi couldn't find the words to reply and found himself allowing Yata to lead him out of the park, Yata stretching a little in order to hold the umbrella over the both of them. 

“Bring your phone at least next time,” Yata continued, either unaware of Fushimi's condition or ignoring it. “I had to run around half the neighborhood. I was even about to call the damn Blues just to find you! And you go running off in the rain without a coat, you _always_ pull that shit, then you wonder why you get sick all the time--” 

Fushimi clenched a fist and stopped walking, pulling his hand away from Yata's and holding it close to his chest. Yata's voice trailed off and he turned to stare at Fushimi, something almost nervous in his eyes. Fushimi looked away from him, staring down at the ground. 

“...Why?” It was the only word he could force out of his mouth and Fushimi's entire body tensed, waiting for the reply he didn't want to hear. 

There was no answer and he slowly looked up. Yata was smiling at him – a little sadly but heartfelt, and it made Fushimi's whole body start to shiver with sudden cold. 

“Seriously, Saruhiko.” Yata shook his head. “Why do you _think?”_

Fushimi didn't reply, couldn't reply, all the breath gone from his lungs. Yata stepped forward and took his hand again, pulled him close. 

“I'm—I'm not letting you go again,” Yata said forcefully. “I'm not letting you leave me again, you big stupid idiot. So believe in me a little, all right?” 

Fushimi felt like he should have some reply to that, some sharp retort to let Yata know that he wasn't so weak and sentimental, but he couldn't seem to speak. Fushimi looked away and clicked his tongue again, trying to recover his dignity, and Yata gave him a slightly exasperated smile as he once again led Fushimi forward like a child. 

The rain had begun falling harder by the time they reached the apartment and even with Yata's umbrella they were both soaked through. Yata finally let go of Fushimi's wrist as they walked inside, dropping the wet umbrella down in front of the door next to his skateboard. 

Fushimi thought of knives hanging by the door and smiled ruefully to himself. Yata was already headed towards the bathroom, complaining all the way. 

“Stay there for a sec, Saruhiko, I'm going to get some towels and dry you off. Don't move, all right? Wait for me.” He was glancing back at Fushimi constantly as he made his way towards the bathroom, as if he thought Fushimi might disappear the moment Yata took his eyes off of him. 

Fushimi rubbed at his arms, feeling stiff and still trying to process what had happen. 

He'd run away again. One fight, and he'd run away. And Yata had come after him, in the dark and the rain, holding an umbrella and cursing and complaining, but not letting go of his hand. 

_“So believe in me a little, okay?”_

Fushimi wanted to, he really _wanted_ to, wanted to believe that Yata would always come after him. But somehow he couldn't quite silence all the voices that always twisted and muttered in the back of his mind, whispering, couldn't quite banish visions of empty houses and precious things burned hollow. The feeling that kept him awake all night staring at a figure sleeping on the couch, that even after everything he couldn't relax because it was all going to break apart eventually. 

And Yata had come after him. Fushimi had run, and Yata had followed. 

“...I'm sorry.” The words were grudging, quiet, and Fushimi could barely believe he was saying them. But Yata deserved that much at least, and he couldn't think of anything else to say. 

“Hmm?” Yata's head poked out of the bathroom. “Did you say something, Saruhiko?” 

“Tch.” _Stupid Enomoto. Stupid girl game logic._ Fushimi's fists clenched and his face felt hot, but he cleared his throat and raised his voice anyway. “I'm sorry.” 

There was a very long silence and Fushimi glanced up. Yata was staring at him with a wide-eyed look as though Fushimi had just proclaimed himself the Rainbow King. 

“What?” Fushimi gave Yata a defensive look and Yata shook his head, trying to gather himself. 

“Nothing, nothing.” Yata laughed, his voice untroubled and really _happy,_ and Fushimi's breath caught. “You just don't usually admit stuff like that, that's all.” 

Fushimi clicked his tongue again and Yata shook his head with another laugh, draping a towel over Fushimi's head and rubbing at his wet hair. Part of Fushimi wanted to bat him away but he felt tired all of a sudden and found himself leaning forward just a bit, moving closer to Yata. 

_Misaki..._

Yata's irritated muttering tapered off and the towel slid from Fushimi's head as Fushimi moved in closer, his mouth capturing Yata's. He heard Yata make a small noise of surprise but after a moment's hesitation Yata kissed him back. Yata's breath felt hot in Fushimi's mouth and their tongues mingled, one of Yata's hands running through Fushimi's wet hair. Fushimi felt Yata press up against him and obligingly let himself fall back onto the couch. It was easy enough to remove Yata's wet shirt, his tongue in Yata's mouth as Yata's hands moved against his skin. 

And then Fushimi felt it, the sudden hesitance as Yata's hands moved from his chest back up to his hair and his neck, though Yata didn't break the kiss. It was the movement of a person who had been pricked too many times and was hesitant to try and touch the rose again. 

_“But placing oneself in a vulnerable position can mean more than simply choosing to remain unguarded. That an animal shows you its stomach means it believes that its master will not harm it and places all its trust in the hands of the one it cares for. Indeed, I would think such a thing shows bravery, does it not?”_ Munakata's words were there too, in the very back of his mind, and Fushimi tensed. Yata seemed to sense the change and sat up, hands moving back to his sides. 

“Saruhiko? You okay?” Yata was looking at him with nothing but concern. Fushimi didn't answer, eyes drawn to the bandage on Yata's hand. 

_“So you believe Yata Misaki would tear you apart, given the chance?”_

_“Believe in me a little.”_

It wasn't like that at all and yet it _was._ Fushimi had known that from the very start, that Yata could tear him apart with a word or a look and there wasn't any weapon that could defend him from that. But Yata had told Fushimi to believe in him, and there was no way to know for sure if he would be torn apart unless he bared his stomach first. 

Fushimi took a steadying breath, lightly pushing Yata backward with one hand as he stood. His entire body felt strange, nervous in a way he wasn't used to and didn't quite like, and he thought he might be shaking. Yata was still looking at him with clear signs of worry in his eyes. 

“Hey, Saruhiko...” 

“Shut up.” Fushimi said it sharper than expected and immediately felt annoyed at himself for it. He took another deep breath, feeling strangled despite that. “Stay there a minute.” 

Carefully he stepped away from the couch, unbuttoning his shirt. Yata looked like he was about to say something and then stopped, waiting. Fushimi kept his eyes trained on Yata's, concentrating on keeping his face impassive and his breathing steady as he slid a hand underneath his shirt. 

His cold fingers fumbled for just a moment on the strap of the harness, as though his hands had gone numb. There was a small clicking sound and Fushimi removed the first knife holder, laying it onto the ground. Yata's eyes widened slightly but he still didn't speak as Fushimi reached under the other arm. Another soft sound as he removed the next holder, then the harness. Metal clanking against metal as he carefully removed each and every knife hidden on his body, hands appearing and disappearing beneath his clothes, until there was a small pile of weaponry stacked on the floor beside the couch. 

_A twisted version of a couple's coat rack_ and Fushimi managed a slight smile, feeling a little light-headed. Even though he still had most of his clothes on it felt like being laid bare, standing there without a single weapon against his body. 

“All right. Happy now?” Fushimi's voice sounded shakier than he'd intended as he moved back towards Yata, who was staring at him with an unidentifiable expression that made Fushimi feel suddenly self-conscious. His hands fluttered up to grasp at his shoulders and he tried his best to keep up a neutral expression. “Well?” 

And then Yata was pressed up against him, kissing him with a fierceness that took Fushimi's breath away, hands reaching up underneath Fushimi's shirt to touch his bare chest, heedlessly tearing at the buttons until Fushimi's shirt hung open loosely against his sides. Fushimi swallowed a quiet gasp, his own hands reaching for Yata's shoulders and then they were lying back on the couch in a tangle of limbs, fingers exploring each other's skin. 

“Misaki.” Fushimi breathed the word into Yata's mouth and Yata made a soft noise deep in his throat. Fushimi leaned upward, hands reaching around as he ran his fingers through Yata's hair and Yata returned the kiss almost desperately, his hands running along Fushimi's chest, tracing a line down his sides. Yata's fingers felt too warm on his skin and Yata's breath in his mouth was hot and inviting and Fushimi felt almost light-headed again, drunk on the feeling of Yata's hands all over his body. The skin that had already felt too exposed felt even more so now, hands grasping at hands, Yata's fingers trailing along his neck and then circling his stomach, and the whole time Yata's mouth pressed against his, warm and wet and it felt like there was something he couldn't name burning in his chest and in his lungs. 

It wasn't as though Fushimi hadn't thought about it before, being touched by someone else. It wasn't the first time they'd been like this, of course – all those previous attempts on the couch with Fushimi's shirt buttoned and weapons between his skin and the soft touch of Yata's fingers. He'd thought about it even before that too, idly every now and then, what it might be like to have someone's hands running along his bare skin and it had never seemed appealing to him. That had been before he'd ever even considered the idea that it might be Yata's hands touching him and so those visions had been filled with the images of some stranger holding him, filthy hands marking his skin with every touch, the idea of someone holding him only for their own pleasure and not because they had any interest in _him,_ just bodies meeting because that was something that humans did. That it might someday be something he wanted, and some _one_ he wanted, that had seemed like only a dream too foolish to keep entertaining. 

But Yata was here and it felt good, better than Fushimi had ever expected and if Yata's fingers made a trail where they touched Fushimi would have welcomed it, treasured it, the precious mementos of Yata's touch. 

Then there was a sudden loss of contact that left him momentarily swimming as Yata pulled away slightly. Fushimi gave a soft whine of protest and he heard Yata laugh a little, sounding almost giddy himself, and Fushimi wondered if he wasn't the only one who had gotten a little light-headed, 

“Saruhiko...” Yata swallowed hard and his face was flushed from more than just the exertion. His hands were hovering just above the waistband of Fushimi's pants, a feather-light touch against Fushimi's skin. “Can I—I mean, is it okay if I...if I kinda...I mean, if I...” 

“If you want to take off my pants _Misaki_ , go ahead and do it.” Fushimi managed to keep just enough of a taunt in his voice but he was aware that his voice still sounded thin and shaky. Yata didn't even look affronted, only laughed a little and pushed himself down close against Fushimi again, running his tongue down the side of Fushimi's neck. Fushimi gave a quiet moan in reply, hands wrapping around Yata's shoulders and holding him close as Yata's hands slowly fumbled for Fushimi's belt. 

Their mouths met again and Fushimi's fingers tangled slightly in Yata's hair, pulling him closer as Yata unzipped Fushimi's pants and slowly worked them down his hips and off onto the floor. There was another momentary hesitation but Fushimi could feel the difference from before, the difference between Yata holding back because of a boundary between them and Yata working up his own courage to take the next step forward. 

And then Yata's hands slipped under the waistband of Fushimi's boxers, pulling them off as well, and Fushimi arched up slightly, moaning into Yata's mouth as Yata's hand closed around Fushimi's length. 

_“Misaki.”_ Fushimi breathed out the word and let it be caught by Yata's mouth, a shiver running up his body from where Yata's hand was wrapped around him. Yata gave a clumsy, almost hesitant stroke that would have made Fushimi laugh if his head hadn't been dulled by the sudden sensory overload. 

Yata seemed to take Fushimi's reaction as a cue that he was doing something right and he slowly moved his hand over Fushimi's erection, running his fingers up the length of it, and Fushimi's head arched back slightly with a low whine of pleasure. 

“Is this okay?” Yata's voice was more strained than Fushimi had expected and his face was still red. Fushimi managed a slight chuckle. 

“I suppose it's not bad for a _virgin– ”_ The last word was half-swallowed by a whimper as Yata's fingers closed around the head of his cock, squeezing just slightly, and Fushimi fingers dug at the skin of Yata's shoulders. 

“Don't call me a virgin,” Yata muttered and Fushimi gave a soft laugh. 

“But you're still all red, aren't you?” Anything else Fushimi might have said was swallowed by another moan as Yata stroked him again. Fushimi pressed his mouth over Yata's once more, the kiss deep and almost grasping, as if the only breath he could manage was taken from Yata's lips. Fushimi's hands pushed up against Yata's chest, exploring the skin he knew too well, and Yata's free hand locked around his waist to pull him closer. Fushimi's entire body felt hot, hotter than even the time he'd taken Suoh Mikoto's test, but it was a fire he wasn't all afraid of, a fire he _welcomed._ Yata's hands touching him in the most intimate of places, places no one else had ever been allowed to touch – it wasn't all like Fushimi had imagined it, not at all like the fingers of strangers crawling over him like ants, just warmth and friction and an electricity that made Fushimi whimper in desperate need for _more._

_“S-Saruhiko.”_ Yata seemed to be feeling it too, the word a breath in Fushimi's mouth, and the hand on his length increased its pace. Yata's skin was wet from more than the rain and there was an obvious tent in his pants. 

“Misaki too.” Fushimi reached down towards the zipper of Yata's pants, not breaking eye contact. “I want—Misaki---” 

The words were broken up by pants and whimpers but Yata seemed to understand, guiding Fushimi's hand down. There was a rustle of clothing as Fushimi readjusted his position slightly so that he was practically in Yata's lap. His fingers closed over Yata's own hardened length and he _felt_ the shiver run through Yata's body at his touch. Their hands closed over each other, pressing their erections together and Yata began to rub them both in soft strokes. Fushimi kept one hand over Yata's, moving together in the same rhythm. 

“Mmm...ah...Saruhiko...” Yata's voice came in soft pants as his hand worked them both. Fushimi had already lost any hold he had on words, his mouth open as he breathed heavily, trying to hold himself back against the waves of pleasure that rolled over him with every movement, that friction of skin on skin, his hand over Yata's and Yata's hand pressing both their hardened lengths together. Fushimi arched his back slightly, free hand digging into Yata's shoulder again as he pulled himself closer and mouthed Yata's name. 

He could feel the heat pooling in the base of his stomach, spreading upward and outward and Fushimi knew he was close to his release. He pushed at Yata's hand, forcing him to increase the pace, and from the sudden hitch in Yata's breathing he knew that Yata was feeling the same way. 

Fushimi leaned down to capture Yata's mouth again, tongues mingling, warm and inviting and then he _felt_ the sudden whimpered gasp as Yata came. Fushimi kept his gaze steady on Yata's face, enjoying the sudden hazy look of pleasure in Yata's eyes and the hand on his cock felt sticky with more than sweat. Fushimi rocked against Yata's body, hips bucking slightly as Yata's hands increased their pace, slick and warm, Yata's breath in his mouth, hands on skin and eyes on him, only on him, and Fushimi's entire body shuddered hard as he came. 

They fell back against the couch, both breathing hard, Fushimi still mostly in Yata's lap with his head resting against Yata's shoulder. They lay there for several moments, Fushimi's eyes closed as he breathed in the smell of Yata's sweat-soaked skin and hair. 

“...You all right?” Yata still sounded a little breathless but the words were sincere. Fushimi nodded wearily. 

“Mmm.” Fushimi pressed himself up close against Yata's body, laying his cheek against the crook of Yata's neck, still drunk on the feeling of skin against skin. It felt like foreign territory somehow, new and terrifying and exhilarating at the same time, being so close together like this with nothing between them. All his weapons were still on the floor, out of reach, nothing but warmth against his skin, and Fushimi pulled himself closer as one of Yata's arms hooked around his waist. 

“Saruhiko...” Yata sounded oddly nervous for a moment and Fushimi felt him swallow hard. “You—you know I love you, right?” 

The words were like a shock of lightning and Fushimi stiffened in Yata's grip as he looked up. Yata's face was bright red and he was looking straight ahead, biting his lip as though preparing for a fight. 

He knew of course. Deep down, Fushimi knew. After everything it would be hard for him not to. But there were always those voices there in his head, whispering, the shaking in his limbs and the sickness in his head that nothing would last, that those words were not for him, had never been meant for him. 

But Yata had said it and Yata was touching him, bare skin against bare skin, Yata was holding him close and blushing and always, always sincere, and Fushimi smiled. 

“Me too. About Misaki.” Fushimi mumbled the words sleepily into Yata's collar and felt Yata jolt slightly. After a moment Yata's arm around his waist tightened, protective. 

“And—and I want us to have a place together,” Yata continued, stumbling a little over his words, bright red spots still blossoming on his cheeks. “Not the one we used to have. Something... _new,_ you know? Like, not a past but a future?” 

Fushimi looked up at him, still half-asleep, and Yata stared back at him with shining eyes. 

“I want to be with you, Saruhiko. Just one place, for us both. Something new, together.” 

Fushimi's voice didn't seem to be working so he only nodded as Yata wrapped his other arm around Fushimi's shoulder, pulling him closer, and Fushimi leaned into him. He was suddenly fully aware of his own nakedness and the pile of clothes strewn across the floor around the couch, the knives on the floor and Yata's skateboard and bar by the door, Yata's skin under his fingertips, hands around him, nothing at all between them, not even his own clothing separating his skin from Yata's. 

And yet somehow, Fushimi had never felt safer.


End file.
